


Cast me away, take me up

by camelotsheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Arthur's limbo experience, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25326802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelotsheart/pseuds/camelotsheart
Summary: When Arthur Pendragon dies a day after Camlann, he opens his eyes to white mist.This is Avalon. The place of farewells. A place waiting to be turned into a beginning.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Cast me away, take me up

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is part of a larger WIP I have in mind, but I'm not sure if I will have the time to write the whole thing. Since I don't know when that WIP will finish and there's already too many ideas, this small prequel is my attempt at stiffling the overriding want to just go and share incomplete stories.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

When Arthur Pendragon draws his last breath on the hills of Avalon, he leaves behind an eternal legacy; of six nights, a manservant, a physician, a queen and a king gathered around a circular table, bound together not by title or power, but by loyalty as friends fighting for the same victory.

By all conventions, the tale of King Arthur should have reached its conclusion. He won, and he died. There was sacrifice there, and trust, and the cries of a stubborn friend who would not accept even the rugged grips of death.

The next time Arthur opens his eyes is to white mist.

This mist can be King's cross, but it will not be that for Arthur. His clothes, too, are not robes, but shirts and pants of an age older than Hogwarts itself.

The lack of metallic weight as he stands serves a reminder to his departure. He is dead. It seems like a finality, thoughts amongst clashes and darkness that have finally made themselves real.

Whiteness takes the form of trees, grass and fallen leaves. A rugged path paves it way towards an arbitrary horizon, and on its end, he realises, is the stone castle of Camelot.

"I knew it would look familiar."

He turns. There is a woman behind him with an appearance that seems as ancient as the mist itself.

"Your Highness," she addresses while keeping hold of two horses, "It's an honour to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," he replies. The childish question exits his mouth before he can stop it, "are you Death?"

Her eyebrows raise in amusement. It reminds him of Gaius, but it's different in a way he cannot place. Just like the white forest around him, like the grass beneath his feet, like the castle that stands proud against an empty sky; a reality neither real nor unreal, a rip between two worlds, a bridge.

What will happen when he crosses?

"I'm Perenelle Flamel. A friend of Merlin's." Before he can ask anymore questions, she offers, "shall we go on a ride, my lord?"

There are all the reasons he should refuse, but there are also voices urging him on, ripples of existence beneath white leaves that seep into his bones and reminds him to breathe, to exist, to _live_.

Behind him is Camelot, and before him is a strange woman, a forest, and the memory of a voice calling his name.

 _Stay with me_.

Arthur takes the reigns of the horse and rides into the mist.

.

.

Even as they tread deeper into the woods, Camelot does not seem further away. He can see the faint outline of its gates when he turns back, and the sight of it is like a weight on his chest. Perhaps his mother is there, or Elyan and Lancelot, and all the warriors of Camelot that had died fighting his battles.

"They will welcome your entrance with open arms," the woman says. "But only you can choose when to arrive."

"Punctuality is a virtue."

She shrugs in good humour. "There is no time here. They only know that you will return, as all things do. It does not have to be now."

"What will happen if I choose not to return?" He asks, trying to catch threads of meaning.

"And why would you choose that?" Her voice is steady, like memories of Geoffrey when as tested a five-year-old Arthur on the Latin alphabet, but when Arthur looks properly into the aged lines that stretch across her face, there is relief there, too.

"Because-" _because my kingdom is waiting for me, because I want to live._ "Because that's what anyone would want, my lady," he says instead, pausing in thought. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

For some reason, the woman laughs. "You're smarter than he gives you credit for," she says, and by the time Arthur figures out that 'he' is definitely Merlin, Perenelle is handing him large brown book.

He takes it with all the vigilance of a knight pre-disposed to unease with items possibly linked with sorcery. There is no title on the cover, and as he opens it he realises that the book is written in a language he has never seen before, but for some reason his mind _knows_ , like his feet have memorised the twists and turns of every corridor in Camelot's castle, he can understand these runes as if they are a childhood memory coming back together.

 _The Tales of Arthur Pendragon_ , he reads. _A history of the seventh king of Camelot, by Merlin, friend and manservant._

"They call it Merlin's Book," explains Perenelle. "The only possession of Merlin that exists in the modern world, written in an unknown runic alphabet."

"But it's not," he figures, flipping through pages of strange symbols he somehow understands. "Is it a spell?"

"A spell of secrecy meant to reveal the contents of the book only to those who will not take advantage of the knowledge it contains."

"Knowledge?"

"Portals to the underworld, the Sidhe, shades, immortality, the cup of life..." Arthur has a feeling there are many more things she is able to list. "Granted, people have rediscovered many of these things anyway, with the veil, horcruxes, inferi, the resurrection stone and the philosopher's stone."

Considering he only understands a quarter of what has just been said, it's completely acceptable that his response is, "um."

"I knew you would say that, my lord." She smiles, stopping her horse to let herself down onto the ground, which is no longer grass but a wooden floor. Trees have been replaced with rows and rows of books behind a set of cushioned seats, in between them a table. "Which is why we're stopping for a quick read."

Gingerly, he places himself upon the cushions, eyeing the stacks of books on the table with mild trepidation. "How quick will this be?"

"Considering quickness is only defined with the existence of time. . ." She hums. "Well then, I rephrase - take all the time you need, sire."

Arthur tries very hard not to sigh.

.

.

It seems like more than a day has passed when he finishes. A day filled with revelation upon revelation of secrets, and even more of loyalty and sacrifices.

Every brush of death recorded on these pages carves a hole into his chest.

Arthur understands now - remembers - the meaning behind Merlin's downcast eyes as he watched burning after burning, of Arthur's betrayals to people Merlin considered his own. Merlin should have been on the other side of the war.

 _There is a prophecy claiming that King Arthur will return when Albion's need is greatest_ , Merlin had written at the book's closure. _As with every claim, there are skeptics, and perhaps it is appropriate that I myself concur to the impossibility of this event. Nothing can raise the dead - that is an unchangeable law of magic, and I myself was witness to his death on the hills of Avalon 864 years ago._

_King Arthur's return - when he returns - will break the laws of magic; something one might call a miracle. And in the belief of miracles, I can only say this - if there exists the impossibility of a man who is the child of magic itself, then there will rise Arthur Pendragon, once king of Camelot, and the future king of Albion._

"I need to go back, don't I?" Arthur sighs, slumping his head on the armchair. 846 years. Morgana's insanity made more sense than this. "For Merlin."

"Not for Albion?" asks Perenelle from behind a bookshelf.

The answer he nearly blurts out should worry him, but whatever responsibility destiny has given seems so distant compared to weight of guilt that hangs like a stone in his stomach.

Before he can reply, the white bookshelves disappear like a waning image and turns back to forest, grass and gravel. His horse huffs beside him, and a few feet away, Perenelle hops onto hers.

"Wait-" he calls, "I thought there were more books to read."

"That was just to make you read faster, my lord," says Perenelle with a dismissive wave of her hands. "Merlin said you weren't much of a reader."

Arthur grumbles while hopping on, hurrying to catch up with the lengthy stride of her horse.

"If there's already a prophecy," reasons Arthur, "why am I given a choice?"

"There is always a choice." She smiles. "But _your_ choice, King Arthur... I imagine it is not a choice at all."

Trees turn to water, grass turns to shore, mist billows in the distance to settle into a small hill, protruding on it a tower. Avalon.

"Loyalty like Merlin's can only be born through a similar kind," she says. "You will return to him as a miracle of magic, just as he stayed by your side as a miracle of magic."

In his mind is a final dawn, the sharp pain of a fatal wound, and words of loyalty in an extent he had not yet understood.

_I was born to serve you, Arthur._

"It was a pleasure talking with you, King Arthur," says Perenelle. And the statement comes so abruptly that he swivels his head towards her so hard he almost sees stars.

"Wait. But how do I-"

She points towards the water.

There's a bottle there. A clear glass bottle containing some sort of parchment. He hops off his horse and wades into the lake to pick it up. There is no cold from the water that splashes onto his calves, just a feeling of liquid brushing against his garments. Detached, unreal, imaginary.

When he turns back, Perenelle is gone.

The lid of the bottle slides into his palms as easy as wind, the parchment even more so. It's a letter, he realises. A bottled message in Merlin's handwriting.

There is something stuck in his throat as he begins to read.

.

.

_Dear Arthur,_

_It's been 1408 years since Camlann._

_The world has changed, as all things do._

_Things you and I never thought possible are materialising with each year that passes. Albion has been united. Magic is flourishing. Science has cured diseases thought incurable and made life better than it has ever been before._

_But we both know the duality of things, the darkness that seeps into every good._

_There have been wars. Three wars that left millions dead and lands larger than Albion devastated._

_These are not the battles you and I had. Not border skirmishes and a grapple for the throne. The dark wizards of this age do not work for mere kings, nor do they only envision the conquest of one land. They set their sights on a world larger than we ever thought, regions across the seas where the Saxons came from, and far, far beyond that._

_These are world wars. Our enemies number in the millions and innocent fatalities number even greater. There exists weapons not made of magic, but science, that are deadlier than any spell, explosions that destroy cities in the span of a heartbeat, poisons that seep into the very air we breathe._

_In this age, you and I are only legends. Stories told at bedtime of a world that was much simpler and kinder._

_I wish, too, that I could go back to those times._

_Please don't come back._

_You don't deserve to shoulder the burdens of this new world that is as destructive as it is beautiful. You've done enough. The story of king Arthur ended on the hills of Avalon. There is no need to continue._

_Be happy with Gwen, your mother, your knights, and your people. Be happy with a life where you can belong._

_You can trust me with everything else._

_It's okay to be selfish, Arthur. It's okay to want what you deserve._

_Merlin,_  
_Your friend and manservant._

.

.

When he looks up, he is surrounded by water.

Perhaps that is for the best, because now there is a girl standing infront of him, and he will not let his first meeting with a stranger start with him in visible tears.

"He threw that into the lake a year after the last war," she whispers as the lake's current sweeps her dark hair with it. He shouldn't know where he is. There is only water, and upwards where the surface should be is a sky, grey now instead of white. But he knows, just as he knows the intelligible runes in Merlin's book. This is Avalon. The place of farewells. A place waiting to be turned into a beginning. "I think it ruined him that he couldn't save more people."

He remembers a cup, the sound of a body falling to the ground. Of course it would.

"The world will be a foreign place for you, King Arthur," she continues. "But you need to believe. Just as Merlin believed in you, just as magic itself made you the exception of its laws. Believe in the path you have taken, and the path you need to take." Dark eyes meet his with Perenelle's same hopeful expression. "Will you face the world, my lord?"

There is a soft glow around them. On his right is an image of Avalon and the lone man sitting on its shores. On his left is the great stone castle of Camelot - his home, his land, his people, a vigil to all the things he left behind, to the path he does not intend to take.

"Take me to him," is his answer.

"Then you will have to catch."

She grabs his elbow and pushes it above the water's surface. A flash of metal spins through the grey sky, hurtling towards him like a rope meant for a drowning man.

It's only when he catches that he realises.

His hand lowers, feeling a familiar hilt still warm from human touch, a piece of the living world thrumming in his hands.

 _Cast me away_ , he reads its golden carvings, and then a wish and a promise all at once: " _Take me up."_

An invisible current sweeps his body upwards, the touch of water grows colder, tingling on his skin and pouring deeper into veins and bones.

He breaks the surface of the water.

.

.

Many miles away from Avalon, the name of a king long gone stirs beneath the skin of an ancient palm.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the film makers have said that it was Freya who caught the sword, but it's my guilty headcannon that it was both Arthur and Freya. The past guiding a future to come.


End file.
